


So Press Pause and We'll Go

by skoosiepants



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Office, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5542052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is going to get drunk. Stiles is going to get super fantastic drunk, because he just tossed his Secret Santa gift to his boss under the Christmas tree. Or his boss-adjacent; Derek Hale is a manager of people who are near Stiles, but not exactly Stiles. And he not only hates Stiles's guts, but seems to hate holidays and merriment as well, if the sour look he's giving Isaac and Isaac's jangly elf hat is any indication. It's a shame that he's hot like burning and three hundred million miles out of Stiles's league, because despite the blatant animosity he's been showering Stiles with since Stiles started there six months ago, Stiles still wants him so bad his teeth ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Press Pause and We'll Go

**Author's Note:**

> For Lissadiane, who wanted: Stiles and Derek work in an office together and the office does a silly Secret Santa thing every year and FINALLY, Stiles draws Derek, his Super Secret Crush, from the hat! So he buys him the greatest gift ever, and wraps it up, and they all sneak their secret santa gifts under the tree to be unwrapped at the drunk fest that is the office christmas party, and Stiles does, only to realize as he’s stashing it there that he accidentally signed it “from your secret admirer” rather than “secret santa” and then there are shenanigans as everyone tries to figure out who it is and Stiles desperately tries to avoid discovery.

Stiles is going to get drunk. Stiles is going to get super fantastic drunk, because he just tossed his Secret Santa gift to his boss under the Christmas tree. Or his boss-adjacent; Derek Hale is a manager of people who are near Stiles, but not exactly Stiles. And he not only hates Stiles's guts, but seems to hate holidays and merriment as well, if the sour look he's giving Isaac and Isaac's jangly elf hat is any indication. It's a shame that he's hot like burning and three hundred million miles out of Stiles's league, because despite the blatant animosity he's been showering Stiles with since Stiles started there six months ago, Stiles still wants him so bad his teeth ache.

"I'm going to drown my sorrows in rum punch and reindeer cookies," Stiles tells Scott morosely.

Scott pats his back. "You made him an awesome present, dude."

Erica had been in charge of Secret Santa this year, and Erica is either a sadistic asshole or a romantic at heart, because there hadn't been a price cap, but everything had to be handmade. Scott, Stiles knows, had made Liam a beaded necklace only a hipster jock could love.

Stiles had painstakingly taught himself to knit.

Or, like, knit _better_ , because Stiles has been an on and off knitter since his mom had started him on it years and years ago, but his attempt at a scarf for Derek had been truly spectacular.

It had taken up every spare minute of the past three weeks, made in the softest wool he could reasonably use. He's not amazing at it, but he thinks it turned out pretty good—it's long enough to wrap around Derek's neck at least once, and the pattern is only slightly uneven.

Derek is going to hate it just as much as everything else about Stiles.

"So drunk," Stiles says, and heads off for the punch bowl.

*

Stiles has a cup of punch in one hand and a fistful of sugar cookies in the other. There's a box of ornaments made out of origami in his lap—they're beautiful, his dad's going to love them—and he's watching Erica tug his present out from under the tree with both exhilaration and terror.

And then Erica reads the sticky Santa tag Stiles had placed on it out loud: "To Derek, from your secret admirer," and the bottom drops out of Stiles's stomach.

Scott sends him wide eyes from across the room, and Stiles… doesn't remember writing that, but he also doesn't remember boxing up the scarf at three am after a desperate finish last night, so that isn't actually saying much. Fuck.

The room goes quiet, except for a few stifled giggles— _Kira_ , Stiles narrows his eye are her, but she just bites her lip and looks up at the ceiling, and, _oh fuck_ , it's going to be super easy to guess who gave this to Derek after all the presents are opened, _Stiles is a dead man_.

Derek's scowl is epic, there's a v between his eyebrows, almost a mulish tilt to his chin, and he grabs the box out of Erica's hands. He rips open the paper and then—then he twists at the fabric in his fist like it's personally offended him—and then, and only then, does Stiles realize that at certain angles, maybe, his mangled pattern kind of looks like hearts. Lines of cream hearts against a navy backdrop, seriously, no one in the entire universe will be able to save him now.

Stiles tips the rest of his punch down his throat and slips off behind Jackson to go get more.

*

"It's not that bad," Scott says. The interior of the maintenance closet is too dark to see his expression, but Stiles is pretty sure he's got that squinty-eyed, lying-his-ass-off look on his face.

"It's exactly that bad." There are no actual secrets in Secret Santa, everyone knows this. By the end of the night—or _sooner_ —everyone will know that Stiles has a completely inappropriate and stupid crush on Derek Hale.

"Well," Scott says, "would it help if I told you that everyone already knew?"

" _No_ ," Stiles says, palming his face. "No, that just makes it worse." A million times worse, oh god.

Scott pulls him into a hug and pets the back of his head. "But, like, I don't think Derek knows? So that's something."

"Yeah," Stiles says, slumping into Scott's arms, "something," and it's at that exact moment, because this is Stiles's life, when the door gets yanked open.

Stiles blinks at the sudden and almost-blinding flood of light from the hallway—Derek is a looming dark mass, clutching the scarf in one hand.

Derek says, "Was this a fucking _joke_?" shaking it at him.

Stiles blinks some more. "A super unfunny one?" he says, and then, "Ow, _dude_ ," when Scott viciously pinches him in the side.

Derek has his jaw clenched. He looks from Stiles to Scott to Stiles again, then says, "Fine," and stalks away.

*

Stiles handled that poorly, he can admit that. But what was he supposed to say? No, it wasn't a joke and also I love you?

"Yes," Scott says, because Scott is just as much of a romantic asshole as Erica, who apparently rigged Secret Santa to give her Boyd just so she could kiss him under the mistletoe. Stiles is ninety-five percent certain she gave him Derek on purpose too.

Stiles abandons Scott in the maintenance closet in search of more alcohol—the punch isn't nearly strong enough, and ends up raiding Finstock's office with Malia.

"Why does Finstock need this much gin?" Stiles asks, sitting on the floor with his back propped up against Finstock’s desk. Stiles thinks gin tastes like turpentine, but beggars can't be choosers.

Malia sits down across from him and says, "Peter," saluting him with the bottle.

Stiles grimaces. Yeah, that'll do it.

Malia passes the gin over and Stiles takes a long swallow, twisting his face at the burn in his throat. And then he takes another swallow, and another, before passing it back.

Malia arches an eyebrow at him but doesn’t say anything. That’s what he likes most about her—she’s super quiet in her judging.

Stiles slumps further against the desk. His limbs feel heavy and he hates the way Malia’s frown reminds him how Derek is always so grumpy when he sees him first thing in the morning, like Stiles smiling at him before ten am is the worst thing to ever happen to him.

Stiles runs both hands through his hair. “He’s just—”

“Please don’t,” Malia says.

“Super attractive, right? Ugh.”

Malia shoves the bottle at him again and he doesn’t even notice the burn this time at all.

*

A drunk Stiles is a terrible Stiles, he should remember this. Especially at work. Especially with Malia, because Malia just makes uncomfortable facial expressions at him while he waxes poetic about Derek, because Derek is amazing, even though he always looks like he wants to strangle Stiles with his bare hands.

But, okay, this is what Stiles loves about Derek: he has amazing eyes that crinkle up at the edges whenever he smiles. Not that he ever smiles at _Stiles_ , but he smiles at pictures of Kira's puppy and Liam and sometimes at Erica when she brings him his lunch.

He brings flowers for Boyd’s desk down in the lobby every Monday.

Stiles once heard him _laugh_.

Just because none of that is ever aimed at Stiles doesn't make him love him any less.

“And it’s not just his cheekbones and his ridiculous man-abs,” Stiles says, picking at the label on the gin bottle, because his man-abs, _Jesus_ , Stiles can't handle seeing him at the corporate gym, okay, he loses all coherence. “It’s his adorable bunny teeth and fuzzy eyebrows and the way he can have entire conversations with his face without using words. The way he blushes all over his ears, how can you not find that so stupidly endearing?”

“Easily,” Malia says dryly.

The world spins a little when he looks back up at her. The bottle slips out of his hands to clunk onto the floor between his legs. He says, “I wanna lick him all over and, like, feed him soup when he’s sick. It’s so unfair.”

“What’s unfair?” someone says, and it doesn't _sound_ like Malia, but Malia has her head tilted in question, like a curious predator.

“That he doesn’t want to eat soup with _me_.”

Stiles closes his eyes, but that makes him even more dizzy. Colors swirl behind his eyelids, and his neck feels too thin, head wobbly, and then someone has their hands on his arms and is saying, “Okay, up, up,” and Stiles has to swallow down nausea as he stumbles to his feet. Strong arms catch him around his waist and he face plants into something warm and firm and cinnamon-y and it’s possible that Stiles can’t feel his feet.

“I can’t feel my feet,” Stiles says, but then someone says, “It’s okay, Stiles. I’ll take you home.”

*

Stiles's mouth tastes like he's dying. It tastes like he ate rats last night and then threw up all their furry coats, and then ate them again. He's groaning in pain before he even opens his eyes, there are rampaging bulls goring the inside of his brain, and the sunlight filtering into his room makes him want to dig his eyeballs out with a spoon.

The first thing he sees is a giant glass of water on his bedside table. He stretches out a weak hand, like maybe he could summon it with the Force, but tragically it doesn't even tremble.

The second thing he notices is that he's in his own bed, in his own apartment. He carefully wiggles his feet under the covers, and he's eighty-five percent certain he isn't wearing clothes. Huh.

He doesn't actually remember going home last night. He doesn’t remember much past Malia and terrible gin and, oh god, he thinks he might have been crying at some point? He has just enough energy in his limbs to flop them over his face—he'd cringe in horror and embarrassment if he didn't think he'd pass out from all the throbbing in his skull.

God. What an asshole.

He falls back asleep with his nose pressed into an elbow.

*

Five hundred hours later he wakes up and feels marginally more human. He can finally reach the water, and the bottle of Advil someone—Scott?—left out for him, and tries to figure out if he's hungry or not. Finally, he drags himself out of bed, zombie crawls into the hallway and down to the kitchen. He grabs a box of Corn Pops and eats them dry, slumped against the breakfast bar.

That's when he sees it. The note sitting benignly next to Stiles's phone, which is plugged into the charger on the counter. The note that says, _We need to talk_ , with a phone number and a big D, and Stiles freezes with a handful of Pops pressed up against his mouth.

Fuck.

It could be any number of Ds, there are no less than… three of them? That he knows of. Dan and Dave in the mailroom and Darby from accounting, and it's a big company! And, like, what if D stands for _Doorman_ , which… Stiles's building does not have.

Stiles fumbles for his phone, sliding it open with his thumb and hitting Scott in his favorites. He says, "Please tell me Dave Sanderson brought me home last night and lovingly tucked me into bed," as soon as Scott picks up.

"Who?"

"Know your mail people, Scott!" Stiles says, geez, Scott's been there two and half years longer than Stiles, Dave always says hi and has candy in his pockets, but also: _crap_. He knew it was a long shot, but a boy can dream.

Scott says, "Are you okay, man?" and Stiles is entirely sure the answer is _no_.

*

Stiles absolutely doesn't call the questionable "D" all weekend, and feels only mildly guilty about it. On the one hand, this person carted him home, left out water and drugs, and made sure he was comfortable and not dying. On the other, if it _is_ Derek Hale, then there're just more reasons for the man to hate Stiles: he's a lousy, weepy drunk, and now he's seen him in his Christmas underwear. There are cartoon moose involved.

And, seriously, why would Derek bring him home, anyhow? How did that even _happen_?

Stiles slinks into the office early on Monday morning and takes the back stairs all the way up to the sixth floor, because he's being cautious. He stealthily sneaks into his cubical, shucks his coat and unlocks his computer and gets down to work, happy in the knowledge that if he avoids the breakroom, copy center and the west wing bathroom all day he's got a good chance of not running into Derek at all. It's an awesome plan.

At five after nine, Scott hangs over the side of his cubical and says, " _Dude_ , he's wearing it!"

Stiles's fingers freeze over his keyboard. "What?"

"Derek! He came in wearing your scarf!" Scott gives him two enthusiastic thumbs up and a goofy smile.

And then Stiles's Slack pings with a message and Derek Hale's grumpy avatar is telling him to come down to his office _as soon as possible_ , and Stiles's heart starts thumping so hard he can feel it all the way down his arms.

"Oh, crap," he says, staring at his computer screen in budding horror, and then, a few mind-numbingly long seconds later, Derek adds, "Please."

*

Derek's office is at the far end of the building, with a view of the sunset and the street, and Stiles drags his feet the whole walk down.

The back of his neck is sweating, his palms itch, and he knocks on the half-open door with a horrible sense of foreboding—he leans into the doorjamb from almost two feet away, like maybe he can just talk at Derek from a safe, manageable distance, but then someone knocks into him from behind and he ends up stumbling all the way inside.

Derek is watching him with wide eyes, half out of his seat as Stiles catches himself on the doorknob.

"Uh," Stiles says, "you wanted to see me?"

Derek's mouth pulls down at the corners and his ears pink and he stands all the way up—he has on a soft-looking Henley, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and Stiles has to force himself not stare at his forearms.

"Yes," he says, and then there's a long silence where Derek's eyebrows tell Stiles that they're annoyed, but the blush on the tops of his cheeks suggest something else entirely.

Stiles moves a little further into the room.

Derek clears his throat and says, "I, uh, never said thanks."

Stiles licks his bottom lip and nods. He says, "Pretty sure you did, dude. I mean," he ducks his head, "you didn't have to take me home."

"Pretty sure I did, _dude_ ," Derek says, hazel eyes sharp on Stiles's face.

Stiles's throat goes dry. "Right, uh." What the hell is happening here? "If that's all…?" Stiles trails off, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.

He's already started to turn to the door when Derek says, "No."

"No?" Stiles stops, looks at Derek again, and fuck, he really hopes he isn't going to bring up the fact that apparently everyone in the entire universe knows about Stiles's crush. He figures they should just ignore it until it goes away. Or until Stiles gets fired. Or—wait, has Stiles crossed a line? He sucks in a breath. Oh god, the whole scarf thing was totally sexual harassment, Stiles is going to get written up by HR, there're going to be bad touch posters made about him, everyone in the office is going to have to go on a sensitivity retreat and they're all going to _hate him_. Fuck.

Stiles blurts out, "I'm sorry!" at the same time Derek says, "Do you—"

Derek stops and tilts his head. "What?"

"I’m sorry," Stiles says, clenching his hands into fists. "I'll never make you a suspiciously heart-patterned scarf again."

Derek's brows scrunch together like baby caterpillars. "Stiles."

"You won't even have to see me, I'll come in the back every morning, we never even have meetings together, it'll be fine!"

Derek flicks an exasperated look past Stiles's shoulder, and Stiles glances back to see—Erica, flipping back her hair, giving him an overly-sweet smile. Weird.

"Stiles," Derek says, and moves toward him.

Stiles tenses up, but Derek only hovers his hands around Stiles's elbows, not even touching.

He says, "You're not in trouble."

"I'm not," Stiles says. He's having problems getting his limbs to relax, and he's maybe not pulling in enough air.

"No," Derek says, and this time he _smiles_. He smiles so wide his cheeks puff out and all of Stiles's anxiety slips away in the wake of so much sunshine.

He slumps where he's standing with an audible sigh. "Okay," he says. "Good."

"I just wanted to know," Derek says, and this time his hands press into Stiles's arms, slide down to circle his wrists, "if you'd go to lunch with me today."

Stiles looks blankly down at Derek's fingers on him, the dark hair on the back of his hands; there's a warmth spreading out from his grip, and this is so inappropriate for work, what are they doing? Stiles says, "Yes," his voice only slightly hoarse.

Derek squeezes him once before letting him go. "Good," Derek says. "I know a place where we can get soup."

Stiles numbly tracks Derek's walk back around his desk; he swallows hard, then jerks his gaze up to catch Derek's when his words sink all the way in. "You…"

Derek ducks his head, grinning almost shyly, and says, "Licking is negotiable."

Stiles shakes off his surprise and says, "Licking is totally _not negotiable_ , Derek Hale," Stiles says, and then does victory arms as he walks out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I write stuff on [tumblr](http://pantstomatch.tumblr.com)


End file.
